The ruin, p.16
The Ruin, page 16
“I will.”
He brushes his finger against my cheek. I lean into it. Pulling away, he retrieves his phone from the kitchen and moves to the door.
“Are you ready?”
“Not really,” I answer honestly, “but you can send him in.”
Connor nods. He grabs his coat off of a hook next to the door, sticks his car keys in his pocket, and steps outside. He says something to Richard, but I can’t quite make out whatever it is. Then, it’s quiet. A second later, the apartment door swings open and Richard steps inside. I straighten up in my chair, a calm resilience creeping over me, and prepare myself for a conversation I never expected to have.
It is time to talk to my father.
Seeing Richard standing in front of me is disorienting. This is the man who abandoned us, the man who packed up his things and walked out of the door without so much as a goodbye. On the other hand, this is my father. I never expected to see him again. My inner child longs to run into his arms. In his presence, I’m six years old once more. I want to stand on his toes and dance, to lift up my arms and be swung around, to have him plant a soft kiss on the top of my head and tell me everything is going to be okay. But, it will never be like it was.
Pain and loss course through me. In some ways, it’s like my father has risen from the dead. I’ve grieved and resented his absence for fifteen years. I’ve spent so many nights wishing I could pick up the phone and hear his voice, only to realize it would never happen. Yet, here he is. It’s almost too much to take.
Bewildered, I study the familiar stranger he’s become. Though he still looks like my father, Richard has aged. His short hair, mostly chestnut brown, is streaked with lines of gray. Wrinkles surround his hazel eyes. Much like the ones on my face, purplish circles darken the space beneath them. His cheeks and chin are stubbled with several days of growth.
When I was younger, Richard didn’t let his beard grow in. He kept his face clean-shaven for Mom. She used to tell him she would never enjoy kissing a porcupine. When he did have a hint of stubble, he would rub it on my cheek and make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.
Those once pleasant memories hurt, so I force them down.
If his clothes are any indication, he’s doing well enough for himself. A light gray, three-button blazer rests on Richard’s shoulders, secured in the middle overtop of a forest green t-shirt. His jeans are dark and well-worn, faded in places. There’s fraying on the bottom hems, but that could be the way they came. A tawny brown pair of soft leather dress shoes peek from beneath.
My eyes are drawn to his left hand where a simple golden band gleams on his ring finger. Out of all of his attire, this item looks to be the most well-cared for. Judging by the shine, it’s regularly cleaned and polished.
Is that a wedding ring? If so, is it from his marriage to Mom, or did he marry someone else and start a new family?
I tear my eyes away, not wanting to know the answer.
Tentatively, Richard gestures toward the empty lawn chair beside me. “Is it alright if I sit with you?”
Unsure what to say, I nod.
He flashes me a quick, cautious smile as he takes a seat. It creaks beneath him when he leans back, catching him off guard.
I know I should probably say something, but I’m at a loss for words. In times like these, I’ve learned I tend toward taking the offensive approach. It’s easier to be angry than to allow myself to hurt. If I open my mouth, I might start berating him. Does he deserve it? Probably, but it’s not going to help the situation, so I press my lips tighter.
I’m still furious he left us, but this may be the only chance I’ll have to get answers. I have so many questions now that he’s here. If I make him angry, he could disappear. The man has already proven he’s a flight risk.
We sit together in tense silence, testing the fragile situation, both unsure how to proceed.
Eventually, Richard clears his throat and looks down at his shoes. “I’m guessing you want to know why I’m here.”
“Well, that’s one of the things I would like to know.”
He nods his head patiently. “I understand you’re angry. There’s a lot to discuss.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you understand.” Anger seeps into my words despite my best efforts to keep it at bay. “I’m so thrilled you know exactly what it’s like to be me in this situation.” My arms cross protectively over my chest.
“That’s not what I meant,” he calmly responds. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’ll try to answer as many of them as I can. Where would you like to start?”
My gaze drifts to the ceiling. Obviously, the most important questions are “why are you here?” and “why did you leave?” Neither of those comes out of my mouth, though. Instead, I find myself asking, “Do you have another family somewhere?” Much to my chagrin, traitorous tears roll down my cheeks. I swipe them away.
“No. I certainly do not,” Richard answers. His tone speaks of sadness and surprise. “Is that why you think I left?”
“I have no idea why you left. All I know is one day you were here, and the next day you were gone. You never said goodbye. Mom was an absolute mess, and I had to pick up the pieces.”
Richard wears a stricken expression. He reaches out to comfort me but stops, uncertain, and withdraws his hand. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand, but that’s how it had to happen. There was no other woman. There never has been, and there never will be. Valerie is the love of my life, and you are my family. I would never have another.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Who are you, Richard?” My words are full of scorn. “Why did you leave? Where did you go? What the hell have you been doing for fifteen years? What makes Mom think that you coming back here would help anyone at all?” I pepper him with questions, one after the other, firing them like vicious little bullets and barely stopping to breathe between them.
Richard flinches when I use his name instead of calling him Dad, but he quickly composes himself. “Obviously, this is complicated, and seeing me is unexpected.” He wrings his hands. “But, I am here to help. I know this must be difficult. I can give you some of those answers. Some parts of this story are not mine to tell. For those things, you’ll have to talk to your mother.”
My knees bounce rapidly, airing my frustration. “Start with where you’ve been for the last fifteen years.”
“Michigan,” he says. “I’ve been in Michigan. I’ve been living outside of Ann Arbor and working as an instructor for a community college.”
“Michigan? Why would you go to Michigan? We don’t know anyone there.”
“I know. That’s why I chose it. I couldn’t be near anyone we knew. I had to leave everything and everyone behind.”
“Michigan…” I mutter under my breath. I’m not sure where I thought Richard was or what I had expected he was doing with his life, but working as a college instructor in Michigan had certainly not been it. It’s just so… normal. Somehow, it makes everything worse. “You left us behind for a change of scenery and a crappy job in a new state? Seriously?”
“No. I left because I had no choice. It wasn’t safe to stay.”
“I don’t even know how to begin to process this.”
“Kara, I’m going to tell you things you probably won’t believe,” he states directly. Richard places his hands on his knees and squeezes them firmly before continuing, eyes glued to the floor. “I know I didn’t believe any of it until it happened to me. I need you to listen to my story and try to suspend your disbelief for a while. If you do, you’ll understand why I had to go and why I’m back.”
I bury my head in my hands. “Just tell me the truth. I deserve that much.”
When I look up again, Richard nods. His eyes grow distant and move back and forth like he’s watching a movie only he can see. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“Our family, more specifically our ancestors, are different.”
“Jesus, I don’t need some sort of family history lesson,” I interrupt.
“Yes, you do.” His tone is firm. “Without it, you’ll never understand.”
I roll my eyes and adjust myself in my seat.
“Like most of the people in this country, our family came to America as immigrants. They were poor, and they wanted a better life here. In the early 1600s, twelve of our ancestors and many others from their clan boarded a boat, crossed the Atlantic, and docked in Virginia, ready to start their new lives. They could’ve built homes in the new settlements, but instead, they traveled west on foot until they were deep in the Appalachian Mountains. They constructed their own settlement far away from anyone else, as isolated as they could possibly be.
“My mother grew up in that small, isolated village hidden deep within the mountains of West Virginia. By the time she was born, our ancestors had been living there for hundreds of years. It was the kind of place that wasn’t meant to be found. There was no electricity, no running water, and there were no roads to or from the village. No one ever left. It was forbidden.”
“It sounds like a cult,” I state with disgust.
Richard dips his head slightly in agreement. “In some ways, it was. As I said, no one ever left the village. They provided for themselves by hunting and fishing, fetching their own water from the creeks, and making everything by hand. For the most part, no one outside of our family knew the village existed.”
“Why does that matter?”
“What matters is why our ancestors chose to live this way. The people in our family are different. We’re born with the ability to heal the illnesses of others, even those on the brink of certain death. Our ancestors learned that if they took the blood of the suffering person into themselves, then returned it to the original host, combined with the blood of someone from our family line, the deathly-ill would be cured of all ailments, no matter how serious. They named this process the Sharing. If done correctly, diseases that could maim or mangle a body would fade to nothing. There would be no more symptoms or concerns at all for the Healed. Their life would be spared.”
“You know that’s ridiculous, right?” I challenge him. “It’s scientifically impossible. All that would do is infect both people, and they would die from blood incompatibility…”
Richard ignores me and continues. “Hardly anyone in our family ever fell ill of their own accord. Even injuries healed faster for our ancestors than for others. Broken bones righted themselves in weeks instead of months. Cuts and bruises disappeared overnight. They thought it would be harmless to share some of our family’s health with others. So, our family healed people, and for a time, things were fine. Our ancestors were strangely immune to whatever conditions the ill brought to their doorsteps. From the outside, our ability seemed like a gift, but they quickly learned the truth. It’s dangerous.”
Without thinking, I run my fingers across my perfectly smooth forearms where the cuts from the other day have completely disappeared. My cheek tingles where Jennifer’s ring should have marked me.
“Those that our ancestors healed fared very well. Most returned to their homes that same day. They went back to work quickly. It was as if a miracle had been bestowed upon them. The problem came when others in the villages began to fall ill, too.
“At first, the villagers believed the outbreaks were coincidental, but upon closer inspection, it became clear this was not the case. The symptoms of the newly infected mirrored the symptoms of the Healed, but they quickly escalated into something far worse. If the original patient had come in with a fever, those the person had contact with would come down with the same fever. Hours later, their skin would blister. They would hallucinate horrendous visions, and they would find themselves unable to keep any food or water down. Within days, a previously healthy person would end up inexplicably dead.”
“Yeah, that’s how disease worked in the time before modern medicine.”
“No, you don’t understand. The Sickness spread like wildfire. Somehow, in healing the first person, our ancestors’ blood mutated the illness and made it far more deadly and contagious than it was before. Only we and those we healed were immune. Anywhere the Healed went, the disease would spread, and anyone who came into contact with the Infected would spread the disease to others. Whole villages were brought to ruin in mere weeks.
“Those who had once turned to our ancestors for help began to fear them and their abilities. We were seen as reapers or angels of death. Rumors spread that our ancestors intentionally caused the illnesses. Many claimed they were vying for power, or that they’d made deals with the Devil to kill off our enemies. It didn’t matter that our family never had any significant problems with anyone, nor did they practice the Christian faith. Villagers started to refer to our family as the ‘Ruin.’ Our ancestors were driven away out of hatred and fear.”
Richard pauses for a moment and surveys my face, searching for understanding. I shake my head at him in confusion.
“You don’t really believe any of this, right?” I ask. “Plenty of people died from untreated illnesses back then, and humans have always been prone to superstition. Look at the witch trials and the crusades.”
“I used to think that, too,” Richard replies. “My mother, Lily, told me these stories when I was a child. I dismissed them as strange bedtime tales. I was wrong.
“As I said before, when our clan immigrated to this country, they fled from the growing settlements and made their own isolated village in the Appalachian Mountains. They kept their stories to themselves. They didn’t tell anyone about their healing abilities or the consequences that came with them. As society advanced around them, our ancestors stayed in hiding. They wanted to be left alone. They feared outsiders, worried they would be captured and tortured for what they could do. More importantly, they worried someone would try to harness their gifts to be used as a weapon against their will. So, they hid. Our family was happy. No one left the village. Everyone was safe. Then, one day in 1832, everything changed.
“A sick young man wandered into our ancestors’ village. He told our ancestors he was a traveling tradesman making his way from South Carolina to New York to join his family. He claimed he had crossed over from England only a few weeks before. Our ancestors offered to let him stay in their village for a few days to rest, certain his illness would pass and he would go on his way. He resisted at first, explaining that he had people waiting for him at his destination, but he eventually agreed to rest. However, instead of getting better, the young man grew progressively worse.
“One of our younger ancestors took pity on the tradesman and told him the truth about our family’s abilities. The tradesman didn’t believe him, of course, but knowing he was incredibly sick and worried he was going to die, the tradesman agreed to allow the young villager to try to heal him through the Sharing. The young man did this in secret, and after the tradesman miraculously recovered from his illness, our ancestor packed a small bag of supplies for himself and the tradesman, then escorted the tradesman on the long journey to New York. Our ancestor hoped if he kept the tradesman away from others during the journey, one that would take several weeks on foot, he would no longer be contagious and would be allowed to live out his life when he arrived at his destination. Our ancestor was wrong.
“The two men arrived in New York several weeks later and were greeted by the tradesman’s family and fiancée. They welcomed our ancestor into their home, thankful he had ensured the tradesman made it safely. Wisely, our ancestor stayed to monitor the impact of the Sharing on the tradesman’s family.
“Just as our ancestor was convinced he had defied the odds by helping the tradesman and keeping him isolated for so long, his fiancée became deathly ill. Within hours, the tradesman’s mother and father were sick as well. Even the servants in the house became bedridden. Our ancestor did his best to convince the family not to have contact with anyone outside of the home, but they sent for the doctor, who came and went, unable to determine the exact illness that had brought the family down or to help them recover. The fiancée passed first, quickly followed by the mother and father the next day. In the meantime, the doctor infected others around New York as he traveled through busy streets from household to household.
“Our ancestor and the tradesman watched in horror as the consequences of their actions rapidly overcame the great city before them. Our ancestor joined the others who had the means and volunteered to help with trying to stop the ever-spreading sickness. Bodies of the deceased were quarantined and quickly buried or burned. When the deaths began to slow, our ancestor returned home with the tradesman in tow. Only they knew the full extent of what had occurred in New York.
“Almost ten percent of New York’s population was lost in the epidemic. Many years later, doctors and scientists declared there had been an outbreak of cholera due to infected goods brought over in a shipment from India. It was the only logical explanation they could grasp.”
“Are you seriously trying to take credit for the cholera outbreak? Thousands of people died, Richard. We learned about this in high school history. What’s wrong with you?” I ask, stunned. “That’s sick.”
“It’s the truth,” Richard answers. “Our ancestor returned home full of shame, and he admitted his deception to our family. He suffered severe consequences for his actions. My mother told me both he and the tradesman were imprisoned for years and forbidden to interact with the rest of the family because of their aberration. But, he taught them a valuable lesson. If they were ever going to agree to the Sharing again, whoever they healed must never leave the village.
“Although he had done his best to maintain our clan’s secret, the young ancestor’s presence in New York was enough for inklings of our existence to spread through the states. The Ruin became an urban legend to many. Those who were desperate enough to seek us out, those who were too afraid to die, sometimes made the trek into the Appalachian Mountains. When the ill made their way to the village, if they were deemed worthy, they were healed with the expectation that they were never to return to outside society. If they weren’t, they were never seen again.
He brushes his finger against my cheek. I lean into it. Pulling away, he retrieves his phone from the kitchen and moves to the door.
“Are you ready?”
“Not really,” I answer honestly, “but you can send him in.”
Connor nods. He grabs his coat off of a hook next to the door, sticks his car keys in his pocket, and steps outside. He says something to Richard, but I can’t quite make out whatever it is. Then, it’s quiet. A second later, the apartment door swings open and Richard steps inside. I straighten up in my chair, a calm resilience creeping over me, and prepare myself for a conversation I never expected to have.
It is time to talk to my father.
Seeing Richard standing in front of me is disorienting. This is the man who abandoned us, the man who packed up his things and walked out of the door without so much as a goodbye. On the other hand, this is my father. I never expected to see him again. My inner child longs to run into his arms. In his presence, I’m six years old once more. I want to stand on his toes and dance, to lift up my arms and be swung around, to have him plant a soft kiss on the top of my head and tell me everything is going to be okay. But, it will never be like it was.
Pain and loss course through me. In some ways, it’s like my father has risen from the dead. I’ve grieved and resented his absence for fifteen years. I’ve spent so many nights wishing I could pick up the phone and hear his voice, only to realize it would never happen. Yet, here he is. It’s almost too much to take.
Bewildered, I study the familiar stranger he’s become. Though he still looks like my father, Richard has aged. His short hair, mostly chestnut brown, is streaked with lines of gray. Wrinkles surround his hazel eyes. Much like the ones on my face, purplish circles darken the space beneath them. His cheeks and chin are stubbled with several days of growth.
When I was younger, Richard didn’t let his beard grow in. He kept his face clean-shaven for Mom. She used to tell him she would never enjoy kissing a porcupine. When he did have a hint of stubble, he would rub it on my cheek and make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.
Those once pleasant memories hurt, so I force them down.
If his clothes are any indication, he’s doing well enough for himself. A light gray, three-button blazer rests on Richard’s shoulders, secured in the middle overtop of a forest green t-shirt. His jeans are dark and well-worn, faded in places. There’s fraying on the bottom hems, but that could be the way they came. A tawny brown pair of soft leather dress shoes peek from beneath.
My eyes are drawn to his left hand where a simple golden band gleams on his ring finger. Out of all of his attire, this item looks to be the most well-cared for. Judging by the shine, it’s regularly cleaned and polished.
Is that a wedding ring? If so, is it from his marriage to Mom, or did he marry someone else and start a new family?
I tear my eyes away, not wanting to know the answer.
Tentatively, Richard gestures toward the empty lawn chair beside me. “Is it alright if I sit with you?”
Unsure what to say, I nod.
He flashes me a quick, cautious smile as he takes a seat. It creaks beneath him when he leans back, catching him off guard.
I know I should probably say something, but I’m at a loss for words. In times like these, I’ve learned I tend toward taking the offensive approach. It’s easier to be angry than to allow myself to hurt. If I open my mouth, I might start berating him. Does he deserve it? Probably, but it’s not going to help the situation, so I press my lips tighter.
I’m still furious he left us, but this may be the only chance I’ll have to get answers. I have so many questions now that he’s here. If I make him angry, he could disappear. The man has already proven he’s a flight risk.
We sit together in tense silence, testing the fragile situation, both unsure how to proceed.
Eventually, Richard clears his throat and looks down at his shoes. “I’m guessing you want to know why I’m here.”
“Well, that’s one of the things I would like to know.”
He nods his head patiently. “I understand you’re angry. There’s a lot to discuss.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you understand.” Anger seeps into my words despite my best efforts to keep it at bay. “I’m so thrilled you know exactly what it’s like to be me in this situation.” My arms cross protectively over my chest.
“That’s not what I meant,” he calmly responds. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’ll try to answer as many of them as I can. Where would you like to start?”
My gaze drifts to the ceiling. Obviously, the most important questions are “why are you here?” and “why did you leave?” Neither of those comes out of my mouth, though. Instead, I find myself asking, “Do you have another family somewhere?” Much to my chagrin, traitorous tears roll down my cheeks. I swipe them away.
“No. I certainly do not,” Richard answers. His tone speaks of sadness and surprise. “Is that why you think I left?”
“I have no idea why you left. All I know is one day you were here, and the next day you were gone. You never said goodbye. Mom was an absolute mess, and I had to pick up the pieces.”
Richard wears a stricken expression. He reaches out to comfort me but stops, uncertain, and withdraws his hand. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand, but that’s how it had to happen. There was no other woman. There never has been, and there never will be. Valerie is the love of my life, and you are my family. I would never have another.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Who are you, Richard?” My words are full of scorn. “Why did you leave? Where did you go? What the hell have you been doing for fifteen years? What makes Mom think that you coming back here would help anyone at all?” I pepper him with questions, one after the other, firing them like vicious little bullets and barely stopping to breathe between them.
Richard flinches when I use his name instead of calling him Dad, but he quickly composes himself. “Obviously, this is complicated, and seeing me is unexpected.” He wrings his hands. “But, I am here to help. I know this must be difficult. I can give you some of those answers. Some parts of this story are not mine to tell. For those things, you’ll have to talk to your mother.”
My knees bounce rapidly, airing my frustration. “Start with where you’ve been for the last fifteen years.”
“Michigan,” he says. “I’ve been in Michigan. I’ve been living outside of Ann Arbor and working as an instructor for a community college.”
“Michigan? Why would you go to Michigan? We don’t know anyone there.”
“I know. That’s why I chose it. I couldn’t be near anyone we knew. I had to leave everything and everyone behind.”
“Michigan…” I mutter under my breath. I’m not sure where I thought Richard was or what I had expected he was doing with his life, but working as a college instructor in Michigan had certainly not been it. It’s just so… normal. Somehow, it makes everything worse. “You left us behind for a change of scenery and a crappy job in a new state? Seriously?”
“No. I left because I had no choice. It wasn’t safe to stay.”
“I don’t even know how to begin to process this.”
“Kara, I’m going to tell you things you probably won’t believe,” he states directly. Richard places his hands on his knees and squeezes them firmly before continuing, eyes glued to the floor. “I know I didn’t believe any of it until it happened to me. I need you to listen to my story and try to suspend your disbelief for a while. If you do, you’ll understand why I had to go and why I’m back.”
I bury my head in my hands. “Just tell me the truth. I deserve that much.”
When I look up again, Richard nods. His eyes grow distant and move back and forth like he’s watching a movie only he can see. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“Our family, more specifically our ancestors, are different.”
“Jesus, I don’t need some sort of family history lesson,” I interrupt.
“Yes, you do.” His tone is firm. “Without it, you’ll never understand.”
I roll my eyes and adjust myself in my seat.
“Like most of the people in this country, our family came to America as immigrants. They were poor, and they wanted a better life here. In the early 1600s, twelve of our ancestors and many others from their clan boarded a boat, crossed the Atlantic, and docked in Virginia, ready to start their new lives. They could’ve built homes in the new settlements, but instead, they traveled west on foot until they were deep in the Appalachian Mountains. They constructed their own settlement far away from anyone else, as isolated as they could possibly be.
“My mother grew up in that small, isolated village hidden deep within the mountains of West Virginia. By the time she was born, our ancestors had been living there for hundreds of years. It was the kind of place that wasn’t meant to be found. There was no electricity, no running water, and there were no roads to or from the village. No one ever left. It was forbidden.”
“It sounds like a cult,” I state with disgust.
Richard dips his head slightly in agreement. “In some ways, it was. As I said, no one ever left the village. They provided for themselves by hunting and fishing, fetching their own water from the creeks, and making everything by hand. For the most part, no one outside of our family knew the village existed.”
“Why does that matter?”
“What matters is why our ancestors chose to live this way. The people in our family are different. We’re born with the ability to heal the illnesses of others, even those on the brink of certain death. Our ancestors learned that if they took the blood of the suffering person into themselves, then returned it to the original host, combined with the blood of someone from our family line, the deathly-ill would be cured of all ailments, no matter how serious. They named this process the Sharing. If done correctly, diseases that could maim or mangle a body would fade to nothing. There would be no more symptoms or concerns at all for the Healed. Their life would be spared.”
“You know that’s ridiculous, right?” I challenge him. “It’s scientifically impossible. All that would do is infect both people, and they would die from blood incompatibility…”
Richard ignores me and continues. “Hardly anyone in our family ever fell ill of their own accord. Even injuries healed faster for our ancestors than for others. Broken bones righted themselves in weeks instead of months. Cuts and bruises disappeared overnight. They thought it would be harmless to share some of our family’s health with others. So, our family healed people, and for a time, things were fine. Our ancestors were strangely immune to whatever conditions the ill brought to their doorsteps. From the outside, our ability seemed like a gift, but they quickly learned the truth. It’s dangerous.”
Without thinking, I run my fingers across my perfectly smooth forearms where the cuts from the other day have completely disappeared. My cheek tingles where Jennifer’s ring should have marked me.
“Those that our ancestors healed fared very well. Most returned to their homes that same day. They went back to work quickly. It was as if a miracle had been bestowed upon them. The problem came when others in the villages began to fall ill, too.
“At first, the villagers believed the outbreaks were coincidental, but upon closer inspection, it became clear this was not the case. The symptoms of the newly infected mirrored the symptoms of the Healed, but they quickly escalated into something far worse. If the original patient had come in with a fever, those the person had contact with would come down with the same fever. Hours later, their skin would blister. They would hallucinate horrendous visions, and they would find themselves unable to keep any food or water down. Within days, a previously healthy person would end up inexplicably dead.”
“Yeah, that’s how disease worked in the time before modern medicine.”
“No, you don’t understand. The Sickness spread like wildfire. Somehow, in healing the first person, our ancestors’ blood mutated the illness and made it far more deadly and contagious than it was before. Only we and those we healed were immune. Anywhere the Healed went, the disease would spread, and anyone who came into contact with the Infected would spread the disease to others. Whole villages were brought to ruin in mere weeks.
“Those who had once turned to our ancestors for help began to fear them and their abilities. We were seen as reapers or angels of death. Rumors spread that our ancestors intentionally caused the illnesses. Many claimed they were vying for power, or that they’d made deals with the Devil to kill off our enemies. It didn’t matter that our family never had any significant problems with anyone, nor did they practice the Christian faith. Villagers started to refer to our family as the ‘Ruin.’ Our ancestors were driven away out of hatred and fear.”
Richard pauses for a moment and surveys my face, searching for understanding. I shake my head at him in confusion.
“You don’t really believe any of this, right?” I ask. “Plenty of people died from untreated illnesses back then, and humans have always been prone to superstition. Look at the witch trials and the crusades.”
“I used to think that, too,” Richard replies. “My mother, Lily, told me these stories when I was a child. I dismissed them as strange bedtime tales. I was wrong.
“As I said before, when our clan immigrated to this country, they fled from the growing settlements and made their own isolated village in the Appalachian Mountains. They kept their stories to themselves. They didn’t tell anyone about their healing abilities or the consequences that came with them. As society advanced around them, our ancestors stayed in hiding. They wanted to be left alone. They feared outsiders, worried they would be captured and tortured for what they could do. More importantly, they worried someone would try to harness their gifts to be used as a weapon against their will. So, they hid. Our family was happy. No one left the village. Everyone was safe. Then, one day in 1832, everything changed.
“A sick young man wandered into our ancestors’ village. He told our ancestors he was a traveling tradesman making his way from South Carolina to New York to join his family. He claimed he had crossed over from England only a few weeks before. Our ancestors offered to let him stay in their village for a few days to rest, certain his illness would pass and he would go on his way. He resisted at first, explaining that he had people waiting for him at his destination, but he eventually agreed to rest. However, instead of getting better, the young man grew progressively worse.
“One of our younger ancestors took pity on the tradesman and told him the truth about our family’s abilities. The tradesman didn’t believe him, of course, but knowing he was incredibly sick and worried he was going to die, the tradesman agreed to allow the young villager to try to heal him through the Sharing. The young man did this in secret, and after the tradesman miraculously recovered from his illness, our ancestor packed a small bag of supplies for himself and the tradesman, then escorted the tradesman on the long journey to New York. Our ancestor hoped if he kept the tradesman away from others during the journey, one that would take several weeks on foot, he would no longer be contagious and would be allowed to live out his life when he arrived at his destination. Our ancestor was wrong.
“The two men arrived in New York several weeks later and were greeted by the tradesman’s family and fiancée. They welcomed our ancestor into their home, thankful he had ensured the tradesman made it safely. Wisely, our ancestor stayed to monitor the impact of the Sharing on the tradesman’s family.
“Just as our ancestor was convinced he had defied the odds by helping the tradesman and keeping him isolated for so long, his fiancée became deathly ill. Within hours, the tradesman’s mother and father were sick as well. Even the servants in the house became bedridden. Our ancestor did his best to convince the family not to have contact with anyone outside of the home, but they sent for the doctor, who came and went, unable to determine the exact illness that had brought the family down or to help them recover. The fiancée passed first, quickly followed by the mother and father the next day. In the meantime, the doctor infected others around New York as he traveled through busy streets from household to household.
“Our ancestor and the tradesman watched in horror as the consequences of their actions rapidly overcame the great city before them. Our ancestor joined the others who had the means and volunteered to help with trying to stop the ever-spreading sickness. Bodies of the deceased were quarantined and quickly buried or burned. When the deaths began to slow, our ancestor returned home with the tradesman in tow. Only they knew the full extent of what had occurred in New York.
“Almost ten percent of New York’s population was lost in the epidemic. Many years later, doctors and scientists declared there had been an outbreak of cholera due to infected goods brought over in a shipment from India. It was the only logical explanation they could grasp.”
“Are you seriously trying to take credit for the cholera outbreak? Thousands of people died, Richard. We learned about this in high school history. What’s wrong with you?” I ask, stunned. “That’s sick.”
“It’s the truth,” Richard answers. “Our ancestor returned home full of shame, and he admitted his deception to our family. He suffered severe consequences for his actions. My mother told me both he and the tradesman were imprisoned for years and forbidden to interact with the rest of the family because of their aberration. But, he taught them a valuable lesson. If they were ever going to agree to the Sharing again, whoever they healed must never leave the village.
“Although he had done his best to maintain our clan’s secret, the young ancestor’s presence in New York was enough for inklings of our existence to spread through the states. The Ruin became an urban legend to many. Those who were desperate enough to seek us out, those who were too afraid to die, sometimes made the trek into the Appalachian Mountains. When the ill made their way to the village, if they were deemed worthy, they were healed with the expectation that they were never to return to outside society. If they weren’t, they were never seen again.
